The Good Dirt
by Val-Creative
Summary: Despite gender, despite the fact neither of them likely have any — Aziraphale notices, and how in society two male-presenting creatures keep their distance, but he does not care. Not for one second.


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From the beginning of the universe itself, there's always been a choice.

Aziraphale chooses to keep his head down, keeping an eye on his London bookshop. After all, he did just get it back. Every dusty, sun-gleaming nook... every crisp page… every wooden, polished floorboard… _oh_, Aziraphale has missed it.

He closes up earlier than scheduled, politely nudging out an older woman complaining about the prices. And the bizarre smell. Like _sulfur_. Crowley has taken to visiting more often, insisting on either rooming together or having brunch. It does get lonely. They discover an old storage closet on the third-floor of Aziraphale's bookshop, and while a frowning Crowley tosses around some of suitcases and dressing-trunks, Aziraphale fetches his parcel-mail, drawing open a velvety, purple curtain.

Within the storage room, Crowley examines himself in a full-length mirror, turning around. A narrow, whalebone corset clinched to his waist. Soft and shimmery pink fabric and tiny, frilly and white bows accenting the hem. He's _bare_-chested. A plain, linen slip over his pair of dark, skinny trousers. Aziraphale hesitates, blinking inquisitively, but he — he feels a _flush_ overcoming him.

"What do you think, Angel? Does it suit me?" Crowley half-shouts, quirking an eyebrow. "I don't like the color…"

Aziraphale's mouth uplifts. "It's lovely," he murmurs. "You look… _lovely_…" Suddenly bashful, Aziraphale stares down at the assortment of packages and envelopes on his tablestop, shuffling through them.

"Lovely?" Crowley parrots, without any sardonic nature.

No, _Crowley_ — in all of Heaven and Hell's sake, Crowley seems oddly flattered by the observation, his expression softening.

"Stop that," Aziraphale says loudly, dismissively.

"Oi, you're gonna make me — a _poor_, old demon — blush like a fawning schoolgirl!" Crowley steps nearer, teasing him. Witnessing the ruddiness flooding to on Aziraphale's cheeks in obvious glee. "What will your superiors think—"

"_Hush_."

"The rumors! The scandal!"

"You don't think they're already talking about all of that?" Aziraphale says, huffing, going cross, avoiding the brass gramophone. "About how… how we have _been_…" He makes a frustrated noise at Crowley's head-tilt. Those serpent-slit and yellow eyes beneath the glasses mockingly wide, Crowley's mouth agape. "… … _consorting_," Aziraphale finishes, embarrassed.

"Not quite the way I would have put it," Crowley mutters, tugging apart the corset's ribbon-lacings and shoving off the item. He stares back at Aziraphale's sagacious glance. "Alright, _yes_, maybe it's a good word for it."

_Consorting_. As if any of the other demons and angels understand what that means. Aziraphale has seen more of Crowley's fortitude and strength than anyone has ever seen. The depths of his heart — that is, if angels or fallen angels had them in the first place. Crowley hates being referred to as such but he is _good_. In his own way.

He picks up another envelope moodily. Crowley gently takes his wrist, stopping him, getting his attention. "If you're worried—"

"I am—"

"—_don't be_—"

"—about what will happen to you. To both of us. This isn't over. This war they want isn't over." Aziraphale gives him a faintly exasperated look. He doesn't move as a stern-faced Crowley lifts his hands. "_Crowley_—" The syllables vanish against another hot mouth pressing onto his. A slow, comforting slide of lips. Aziraphale kisses him back, exhaling sharply and letting out a low whine, because it's muscle memory, because he longs for it and for the demonic being in front of him.

Despite gender, despite the fact neither of them likely have any — Aziraphale notices, and how in society two male-presenting creatures keep their distance, but he does not care. Not for one second. They should never be constrained by what _they_ deem appropriate.

Touching Crowley is like having a _constant_ stinging burn on him. He's sure that how it feels for Crowley as well. Testing the sensation. Aziraphale's fingers would grapple with its own inclination for fervor, pushing underneath Crowley's leather jacket, under his black, silken top, listening to his companion breath out. Quivery. Awed. Aziraphale has dared to touch more, on the long, humid nights, feeling Crowley's fleshy hardness against him.

Perhaps it's sin. Perhaps it's _too late_ for the both of them.

"I'll deteriorate before I will ever let them touch you. Do you understand?" Crowley proclaims this, hissing. The edges of his yellow eyes glow-red. Aziraphale just offers a bland smile, palming over Crowley's hands holding firmly to his face.

"You mustn't be so dramatic, old friend…"

In his linen slip, bare-chested, Crowley hugs him, feeling Aziraphale's head resting to his shoulder.

They chose _each other_.

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_Good Omens isn't mine. Wooo boy. The mini series has renewed my love for this ship. I own the book and I love rereading it but it's been a while. I think both actors did extremely well and I appreciate a live action depiction being as gay as hell. AS IT IS MEANT TO BE! ____Okay so it is __30 Days of NSFW but LGBT+ Pride edition where every single day is a LGBT+ identity that a character embodies or a relationship does using the focus/perspective of the story. It's either gonna be canon or fanon! It is Day 6 which is "Omnisexual" and I decided to have Aziraphale being the narrative focus and him being omnisexual!  
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_Along with this from the 30 Day OTP Porn Challenge this is also Day 6 which is "corsets" and this is a prompt table I'm using for June. _

_(If you enjoyed reading this, I would love to hear any comment/thought you had! Also are you LGBT+ too? How are you celebrating Pride Month this year?)_


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